


What I ask of you

by Pax_2735



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Light Angst, Open Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23329687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pax_2735/pseuds/Pax_2735
Summary: Jon Snow sits on the Iron Throne. When he learns about Sansa's plan to return to Winterfell, he has a question to ask.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 40
Kudos: 163





	What I ask of you

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I own nothing but the mistakes.

Sansa keeps her features carefully schooled into a blank mask. It’s a lesson she has learned well – so, so well – during her previous stay in King’s Landing, and one that hasn’t failed her yet. Her eyes, however, are closely trained on the endless procession of lords coming in to swear fealty to the newly crowned king, taking in their stances and accessing them as possible threats.

As yet another lord – something or another, she can’t remember his name at the moment, from a minor house in the Reach – recites his solemn vows, she risks a glance towards Jon. He looks regal, his wild curls for once carefully brushed, shinning like dragonglass under the glow of the thousands of candles lighting up the Great Hall. He’s sitting very straight, his shoulders squared back, with a grey cape flowing over his garb of red and black, and Sansa fights back a smile as she remembers Old Nan scolding them all to sit as though they had swallowed a broom.

Either Jon was remembering his lessons properly or that ugly iron chair is every bit as uncomfortable as it looks.

Lord something-or-other-from-the-Reach rises slowly to his feet, his great big belly making it an accomplishment in itself, and another moves swiftly to take his place. She vaguely recognizes his colors, yellow and blue, her mind quickly placing him as hailing from the Stormlands. He kneels and begins to pledge himself to the king and Sansa notices how Jon leans slightly forward, how his hand kneads his thigh, how he discretely shuffles his feet about. He’s about as bored with the whole thing as she is, not that she’d ever admit to it, and she tears her eyes away from him lest the smile she’s still trying to fight back finds its way fully into her lips.

Instead, she lets her eyes graze across the Great Hall as she only vaguely acknowledges the words being spoken – they’ve been at this for hours, she’s sure she could recite them in her sleep.

The vast room has been painstakingly rebuilt, its walls now adorned with red and black fabrics, with the occasional grey and white for good measure, in recognition of his Stark inheritance. The Red Keep is still mostly in ruins, as most of the reconstruction efforts have been geared towards the rest of the city, but the Great Hall is the exception. Jon hadn’t cared much about it but Bran had raved – for once, almost as animated as when he was still Bran – about the importance of symbols and how the people of Westeros needed something to bind them together until Jon had finally relented.

His coronation wasn’t the wondrous affair of times gone by however. There would be no feast after this, as most of the city was still grappling with the after effects of its destruction. Once the septon had placed the golden crown on his head, Jon had climbed up the stairs to sit on the iron throne and lords from all over the seven kingdoms had begun to swear their fealty.

And once this was done, Sansa could finally go home.

She’s still paying a moderate amount of attention to the proceedings as the final lord rises from the floor and Davos raises his voice in a ‘long live the king’ which is quickly echoed by everyone in attendance. The smallfolk have been gathered outside the red walls for the better part of these ceremonies and Sansa can still hear their cries of joy. It seems as though, for once in its history, all of Westeros is in agreement about its ruler.

It’s no small wonder, of course. After Daenerys had burned King’s Landing to the ground, Jon had emerged as its hero when he’d plunged that dagger into her chest and ended her reign before it could truly begin. His heritage as the last Targaryen could have easily cost him that title – the truth having emerged for all to see after Drogon had tried to burn him alive only for him to emerge from the fire unscathed – but his readiness to kill the dragon while commanding both the northern and southern armies to give battle to what remained of the Dothraki and the Unsullied had cemented him as the rightful king in the hearts and minds of smallfolk and lords alike.

Sansa rises to her feet when Jon does, the movement followed swiftly by the rest of the lords and ladies sitting on the dais. Jon nods his head to his audience solemnly before climbing down the steps and quickly exiting the room through a door hidden behind the throne, and suddenly the room erupts into lively chatter as the assembly begins to file out. Sansa is about to follow them out when Sam magically appears in front of her.

“Apologies, my Lady.”

Sansa lifts a brow and allows the smile that’s been teasing at the corners of her lips to finally break free. “I thought I told you to call me Sansa.”

Sam blushes as he drops his eyes to the floor. “You did. I’m sorry my Lady… I mean Sansa.” He looks back up to give her a small smile of his own. “His Grace wishes to speak to you.”

“His Grace?” Her tone is heavily laced with sarcasm and she makes sure to keep her voice low enough so no one else hears her.

Sam blushes even more. “I mean Jon. Jon wants to speak to you.”

“I know who you mean Sam.” She smoothes down her skirts, taking the time to school her features back into her carefully composed mask before looking back into his face and giving him a slight nod. “Let’s not keep His Grace waiting then, shall we?”

He leads her into Jon’s private solar, an ample room with great wide windows that allow a clear view over the city, the dark waters of Blackwater bay gleaming in the distance under the slowly setting sun. The room has been carefully arranged, with tapestries hanging from the walls depicting various hunting scenes, and bookshelves filled to the brink with books that look far older than she is. To the corner there’s a massive desk, its surface covered with scrolls and plans of the city, and on the wall behind it hangs a map of the seven kingdoms.

Jon is standing next to the window, his back turned to her. He doesn’t move even as Sam closes the door, leaving them alone.

Sansa almost drops into a well-practiced curtsy. “Your Grace.”

He turns his head sharply towards her with an annoyed look. “Not you too.” His expression quickly changes to one of begrudging amusement as she chuckles.

“Tired of the curtseys already?” She makes her way slowly to him and he turns fully to look at her. “You better get used to it Jon.”

“I’ve never gotten used to it before.”

“This isn’t the north.”

He sighs, deep and heavy in his chest. “No, it isn’t.”

She sits down in one of the chairs in front of his desk, her eyes still looking him over. “Sam said you wanted to speak to me.”

He runs a hand through his curls, effectively ruining the carefully arranged look, and Sansa has half a mind to scold him but holds her tongue. It’s not her place anymore to do so, to dote on him as a sister would.

_And you prefer it wild anyways,_ her treacherous mind whispers.

She clasps her hands together in her lap as she tries to chase away the stray thought. This is not the time, she thinks. There will be plenty for that once she returns home to Winterfell, and he stays here, far away from her and her wicked desires.

“Aye,” he says, and she’s startled to realize he has moved closer. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about something.” He’s staring straight into her eyes now, and his voice is deathly serious, and suddenly she feels as though she’s trapped. He sits at the edge of his desk, keeping the space between them minimal. “I’ve heard rumors saying that you’re thinking about returning to Winterfell.”

“Those are not rumors as much as fact.” She stares straight into his eyes as she speaks the words, leaning back against the chair with a scornful look. “Or would you have me do otherwise?” She almost adds ‘Your Grace’ but refrains from it at the last moment. There’s no need to it, not when it’s clearly implied, not when there’s no mistaking the defiance in her tone.

He doesn’t flinch from it as she’d half expected. Instead, he narrows his eyes and she can clearly see the storm gathering there. “I had expected you to stay here.” _With me_ , he doesn’t say, but she hears it nonetheless. “I had hoped—“

“For how long?” Her voice is practiced and even, an echo of times past, betraying none of the sudden urge she has to flee, to leave this wretched place behind and run as fast as she can, to go home where she can once again feel safe and not plagued by these doubts that seem to consume her mind – because leaving is _not_ all that she wants, not when leaving this place means leaving him. “For how long would you have me stay here Jon?”

He sighs, his eyes looking down to the rich carpets adorning the stone floors before moving back to hers with a pleading look. “You know I’m no good at this—“

“You are. I’ve told you that before.”

“I don’t know how to do this.” His eyes lock with hers once again. “Not without you by my side.”

Sansa stands abruptly, watches from the corner of her eye as he straightens his back to keep her in his sights as she moves away from him. Her heart is hammering in her chest at his words, thumping against her ribs in a manner so loud she fears he might hear it, even from this distance she has managed to scrape together. She fears he might see that stupid sliver of hope that comes crashing through her blood even as she _knows_ , knows with a certainty she’s never possessed before, that _that_ is not what he meant.

She lets her eyes roam over the views of the city as she takes what she can only hope is a discreet deep breath to try and steady herself even as she feels Jon’s eyes on her back. The smallfolk are still celebrating all across King’s Landing, the sight of bonfires lighting up the sky a queer image on a city so recently set ablaze. 

“You would have me stay here… permanently.” It’s not a question, not really, but she still holds her breath as she waits for him to answer it.

“I know that’s the last thing you want to do, and you can say no—“

“Can I?” She can’t help the bite in her words nor the way she regrets them instantly as she sees him flinch.

“Sansa,” he sighs, and the hurt in his voice is unmistakable, “of course you can. You know I’d never force something like this on you.”

“I know.” She turns to face him with a small hesitant smile. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just…” She turns back to the window, this time seeing a much different scene. A different time, with different people, cruel words and even crueler actions. She shivers. “I never thought to find myself back here, much less contemplating staying.”

There’s a rustle of something and she knows he has moved, feels the distance between them shrink even as she keeps her back to him.

“It doesn’t have to be completely permanent. The gods know how much I don’t want that. We can visit Winterfell and…” he hesitates, pushes a breath through parted lips with irritation, “I know it’s not the same but…”

She nods her head slowly, still contemplating the city below. Her heart has already made its decision but her mind wages a fierce war against it. She has learned many things in this place and certainly not the least important of all has been to stop believing in songs. She trusts Jon – more than anyone else in her life – but not as much as she trusts herself. She believes in him, but she believes in herself more.

“What would be my role here?” she asks, turning back to look him in the eye.

He frowns slightly. “Your role?”

“You’re asking me to leave the north Jon. To leave my home, my role as the Lady of Winterfell to stay here with you. And I ask you, as what? Your family? Your official advisor? Are you going to make me Hand of the King?”

“I’ve asked Davos to be Hand.”

There’s a hint of confusion marring his features and Sansa smiles ruefully before she turns back toward the window, her back to him as she stares straight ahead into the city. “Not Hand then.” She shakes her head as she tries to steel her voice. “Will I at least be granted a seat on the small council? Or is my help wanted only in a much more unofficial capacity?”

His footsteps echo across the stone floors as he comes to stand behind her. His hands are gentle as they grasp her arms and turn her around. She keeps her gaze lowered, not trusting herself to look at him right away, lest he sees the storm that’s currently raging in her mind. Instead, she keeps her eyes locked on the soft fabric of his tunic. She’s not surprised to see a hint of Stark grey peeking through the black and red.

“Sansa.” His palm feels warm against her cheek, his fingertips grazing her jaw as he tilts her chin up. “Look at me. Please.” His eyes are dark, almost black in the fading light and she sucks in a breath as she watches them fall to her lips for a moment before locking with hers. “I would have you here as my queen.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [Pax_2735](https://pax-2735.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, if you want to drop me a prompt, ask a question or just say hello!


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